


Are You Serious?

by poisontaster



Series: Light 'Verse [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drunk Sam, F/M, M/M, Requited Unrequited Love, Sibling Incest, Unhappy Dean, Unhappy Sam, Unhappy marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-09-15
Updated: 2006-09-15
Packaged: 2018-04-27 08:35:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5041414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisontaster/pseuds/poisontaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>6 months after Born to Be My Baby. Dean's nearly fed up...but things are about to change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Are You Serious?

Dean isn't sleeping when the car pulls up to the curb, crappy alterna-pop blaring tinnily from the speakers. It gets momentarily louder when she opens the door—nearly twenty minutes later—and he hears her sharp, tinkling laugh echo off the trees and the flat front of the house.

He's rigid among soft sheets, hands fisted so hard he can feel blood squish from the gouges his nails have cut in the palms. Her heels, flimsy and too high, chatter up the sidewalk and he hears her stumble and almost fall and then giggle again to herself before she's fumbling raspily with the front door lock.

 _Thank God she wasn't interested in breast feeding_ , he thinks and wonders if she's blown as well as drunk or whether innumerable shots of vodka were enough for her tonight. The air pressure shifts when the downstairs door opens and across the hall, Dean hears one of the twins—probably Evan—stir restlessly in their shared crib. It's all the reminder he really needs and he forces his hands to uncurl and chokes back his anger in red-hot handfuls, swallowing it until his throat feels taut and sore.

Sometimes he wishes he could leave behind these trappings of being a hunter, listening as she kicks off her shoes with another giggle—considerately softer this time—and stumbles through the house, glancing off the furniture as she goes. The house isn't a big one and Dean's always very careful to pick up all their things before going down for the night because _he_ doesn't want to stumble over an unexpected plastic army man or roller skate sneaker in the middle of the night.

He wonders who drove her home tonight. It doesn't sound like the same car as three nights ago but he didn't get to hear the guy's voice this time. Lena comes up the creaking stairs in what she probably considers a sneak, singing the Red Elvises under her breath. "…dancing through the night, driving us insane, waltzing in a pool filled up with champagne…"

 _She's your wife,_ he tells himself. He keeps thinking that repeating it will wear it into a groove in his brain, one with less slippery sides than the current one. _She's your wife and the mother of your children._

_She's a goddamn fucking whore and no amount of diamond rings or children is going to change that._

When she comes into the bedroom, bare feet patting softly on the wood, Dean slits his eyes, looking at her through his eyelashes. The room is bathed in drowned bluish light from the street light shining through the drapes. She is tiny and weaving unsteadily as she lifts her arms up over her head to take off her gauzy top. He can smell the bar on her skin and hair, cigarettes—everyone she knows smokes like chimneys, he always feels a kind of wonder that she doesn't—and liquor and the squalid smell of too many humans pushed up together. She won't shower, getting into their bed with that stink—and the stink of whoever she's been fucking—on her skin and in the morning he'll wash the sheets in hot water and bleach wishing he could afford to burn them.

It shouldn't matter so much. Half the time, even before he knew what she was, he doesn't know why he married her.

Then Miria will run to him on fat little legs and shout, "Up, Daddy, up!" and he remembers.

He married her because she was pregnant. She was pregnant because he was too fucked up, too stupid and too miserable to think about what the hell he was doing and for being damn fool enough to listen when she told him she couldn't get pregnant.

He married her because Sam wouldn't have him and after that he didn't care very much what he did or what happened to him.

Lena finishes stripping down and comes to lie down on the bed, the mattress giving spongily under her slight weight. "Dean," she purrs, wriggling closer to his side of the bed. "Are you sleeping?" Cold fingers touch his shoulder, testing, caressing.

Blown, he decides, pushing her hand away and sitting up. Coke always makes her horny. "Don't."

He can't really see her face, but he can imagine her pout, seen in the context of a hundred other situations like this one. "Always so cranky," she says in the same irritating little girl's voice Dean's never liked. "I only want to make you feel good. Is that so terrible?"

"You only want to make yourself feel good," Dean answers. "And I'm not in the mood to be your dildo. Especially with the stink of someone else on you."

In his memory, his mother is a perfect woman, but he knows how unreliable memory is, particularly when filtered through thirty years of absence. He watches Miria idolize Lena the way he idolizes Mary and wonders if that sense of her would have changed if she'd lived. If she's been as flawed and fucked up as the woman he married—they say you always marry your mother, right? Isn't that how it's supposed to go?

Except he can't imagine hanging onto the memory of Lena the way his father clung to the memory of his mom, decades after she was gone. Hell, he's not sure he wouldn't go out and dance a jig on her grave the day he buried her.

Dance…and then call Sam and…

Dean doesn't let the thought get any further. He's better at it than he used to be. Better at pretending he's forgotten, even if he can't actually do it. He and Sam are over. Quits. They're brothers and _nothing more_ and to hell with how it aches like a rotten tooth every time Sam comes out to the house for barbeques and birthdays or just to watch football or baseball or…on one memorable occasion, tennis.

"Always so jealous too," Lena says airily and too loud. "I tell you before, those men are just my _friends_. Perhaps you should get some. You might understand then."

"I have friends," Dean says automatically.

"You have your brother. Is not the same thing at all." Lena flops onto her back and caresses her own breasts. "C'mon, Dean." Her hips lift up from the bed. "I want you."

"God, you're disgusting when you're fucked up, you know that? I'm not fucking you, Lena, so just get over it." He gets up and is about to snatch his pillow when his cell lights up and buzz-jitters across the nightstand. He checks the display. Sammy.

"Dean." Sam's voice slurs over his name, oddly swallowed and Dean knows Sam is also blotto drunk. Unfuckingbelievable.

"Sammy? What are you…?"

"What did you like best?" Sam asks abruptly, cutting Dean off. "About fucking me. What was the best part?"

Oh Christ. _Christ._ This is all he needs. He glances back at Lena, who's absorbed in the touch of her own hands, playing between her legs and over her nipples. Sighing, he walks out of the bedroom and shuts the door behind himself with a soft click. "Sam. We're not going to do this."

"No, Dean. Tell me. Was it my ass? My mouth? Or just the fact that I'm your baby brother?"

 _No, you stupid drunk ass fuckhead,_ Dean wants to say. _It was because it was_ you _. Just…you._

"You're shitfaced," he says instead and the anger that's been rolling under the surface of his skin for the last few hours starts to boil to the top when Sam laughs—fucking _laughs_ —at him. "You are _shitfaced_ , Sammy. What the fuck? Where the fuck are you?"

"I hate you," Sam says, all conversational, like this is a confidential hour or some shit. "I hate you so fucking much." He laughs again, jagged and hard. "I miss you."

Dean's head clunks into the plaster of the wall and the ugly tightness of his throat pinches that much harder. This isn't fair. This isn't fucking _fair._

But as far as he can tell, life's never really given much of a shit about what's fair and what's not. Why start now?


End file.
